


Surrender

by HalfBakedPoet



Series: One Shot, Two Shot, Some Shots, Blue Box [5]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, Read with care, This is so heavy y'all, Two Shot, buckle up for hurtsville beep beep, thasmin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23614468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfBakedPoet/pseuds/HalfBakedPoet
Summary: The Doctor processes her grief.Set between "Feel Alive" and "Half of Always" in this one shot series.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan, Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Series: One Shot, Two Shot, Some Shots, Blue Box [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668127
Comments: 38
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ActuallyMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyMe/gifts).



> CW: Heavy depression within. Please take care of yourselves as you read this and get help if you need/can.
> 
> Prompt from ActuallyMe: "I surrender what was, what could have been"

_Everything you know is a lie_.

Well, that’s not true, is it? If everything I know is a lie and what you just said there is part of what I know now, then doesn’t that make it a lie as well? Classic circular conundrum, eh?

_What am I supposed to tell you, Doctor? You put me in your head._

Strictly speaking, mate, you’re a projection of myself that’s taken on the Master’s voice because I must still be processing what he, what you…

_I can take a friendlier tone. Someone less… intimately familiar?_

Oi, that’s not fair, not by a mile.

 _But you like Yaz’s voice_.

Yes, when it’s _attached to Yaz_. Disembodied voices in my head aren’t supposed to make me uncomfortable. Well, maybe they are. Point being, don’t be Yaz.

_Fine. So it’s Grace or the Master or I’ll keep shifting voices until you pick one or go mad._

Already too late for that. Me, I’ve been mad a while.

_You just like to say that. …Are you going to choose a voice for me or are you going to be sullen and silent?_

I’d rather you sound like a friend.

 _Yaz was a friend_.

Yaz _is_ my friend. Mind your tenses, projection.

_So what’ll it be, Doctor?_

Grace’s voice is also the Solitract’s. Or it was, just then. It’ll feel like speaking to a dead person, but then the Solitract is alive. Either way, it’s speaking to someone out of reach, isn’t it?

_You’re stalling._

Yeah, well, we’re in _my_ head, aren’t we? _I_ decide the timing here. I decide everything in here.

_Ooh, sounds like someone’s flailing for control._

Have you settled on him, then?

 _Only if you want me to_.

You’re no help.

_I try._

Grace, then.

_Too late._

Oh, sod off, you’re just playing games.

_We do like games, don’t we, Doctor?_

Not when I’m playing by myself. We’ll reach a stalemate like this.

_Like that time you played chess with—_

Oi, if you’re going to sound like him, stick to the stuff he knows about. He wasn’t even there for that.

_But I’m also a personification of you. All the lives you’ve lived—or at least. All the lives you remember._

Like I said, stick to the script or this conversation is over.

_As you wish. What did you drum me up for, then?_

Is that supposed to be a bad joke?

_Not at all. If you listen hard enough, you can hear a whisper of it, too, your hearts pounding along in a rhythm you no longer understand._

I understand how hearts work.

_Have you ever, really?_

Yeah, and everything I know is a lie, but I won’t question my knowledge of biology.

_What if I didn’t mean biology?_

Again, unfair.

_We never made any rules, Doctor._

…So why’re you here, then?

_I was hoping you could tell me that._

I dunno, do I? My head doesn’t always make sense to me; you know that.

_Maybe._

…D’you remember when we were kids?

_Technically, you’d been a kid hundreds of times before then, hadn’t you?_

I _know_ , you’ve just told me that.

_Does it hurt?_

Hurt’s a part of life.

_And you’ve lived thousands._

Getting off topic, aren’t we?

_…Go on, then._

D’you remember when we were kids and we’d run along the cliffs outside the citadel, the red sand kicking up under our heels, and we’d find the smoothest weathered rocks we could and see how far we could chuck them?

_You always threw them away from the citadel. An arc of umber, a puff of sand._

And you always threw them toward it. Probably hit some poor Shobogan once or twice. Said you’d crack the glass one day. Are you proud of yourself now you’ve done it?

_I did say I was ecstatic._

Yeah, you did, didn’t you?

_What was your point?_

Nothing. I just wanted to know if you remembered.

_I’m you. Of course I do._

Then do you remember anything else from before then?

_You’ve been inside the Master’s head before. He remembers a lot._

That you do.

_…Are you going to address the elephant in the room, or shall I?_

Be my guest.

_I am your guest. But I’m you, so I’m also your host. And you’re mine._

Are we going to keep going ‘round about how I’m you, you’re me, until we just circle each other into infinity?

_We could._

You were saying. About the elephant.

_So you’re ready to talk about that?_

Never was, but I don’t have a choice, do I?

_You’re contradicting yourself, Doctor. What happened to deciding everything in here?_

Get on with it.

_Patience, dear. Pull up a chair, get some tea, have a biscuit on me, eh? Get comfortable._

He’d never tell me to get comfortable.

_True, he did trap you in that paralysis field before stuffing you in the Matrix._

It’s not funny, my neck’s still sore from that.

_It is, just a little._

Stop sniggering. …You’re breaking character for… for self care?

_Something like that. You can open your eyes now. See you in a few._

The Doctor opened her eyes, inhaling sharply. Lucid dreaming on the console again. Her head spun and she wanted to be sick, if only to rid herself of the rolling in her gut. The TARDIS gave a gentle hum. _You’re okay, Doctor. Hey, you’re okay._

“Thanks,” she said, patting the panel. She rubbed the sore spot on her jaw, feeling the grooves of the console impressed on her cheek. “He’s—I’m probably right. Could use a good cuppa about now.” She pushed off the console and out of her chair. Tottering toward the hall, toward the kitchen, she paused every few steps to lean against a pillar, the railing, the wall. Legs still shaky, even after weeks out of prison. Must be a physical-emotive response to the events of… well. Never had that happen before, at least that she remembered.

She wanted to shout at herself that she was going too slowly. Her progress toward the kitchen proceeded at a quarter of her normal walking speed, an approximate fifteenth of her running speed—or less—and less than a thirtieth of her speed on a motorbike, should she choose to roar around the TARDIS on one. Not that the TARDIS would have been happy with the exhaust fumes inside, but that didn’t matter in this potential scenario. Her point to herself was that she was going too slowly and she simply lacked the patience to indulge her large motor skills—with or without the motorbike.

With the doorway to the kitchen _finally_ in reach, the Doctor flourished her sonic at the kettle, which switched itself on. At least teatime wasn’t a lie: the sonic screwdriver could reliably switch on the kettle, the kettle would boil water, the boiled water would steep, and the resulting homogenized solution would be tea, best paired with the crisp vanilla of a custard cream.

“Come on, legs, just a bit further to the cupboard, that’s it,”she coaxed. The note of desperation in her voice made her lips tremble. Her knees kept knocking against each other as they bowed at the wrong times. _None of that, now, almost there. Then a good rest._

It was like she’d regenerated all over again: her body in revolt, alien and new to her, the calibrations all wrong, refusing to do simple things without complaint, like walk down the hall for a cup of tea. Absolute rejection of being alive. The Doctor leaned heavily against the counter as she reached for the tea bags, and the edge of her phone in her pocket dug into her hip. She could call Yaz. Ask her to stay over while she was on the mend. It’d be like another sleepover. _But nah, wouldn’t want to be a bother while she’s at work. More important things to mind out in Sheffield. Besides, she can come ‘round whenever she likes._

For the past three weeks, the TARDIS had stayed put where they’d landed: on the plot of grass overlooked by the Khan family flat. The other residents didn’t seem to mind it, though an occasional elderly couple stopped to admire the new “community art installment”, and more than once, the TARDIS had to let off her steam exhausts to prevent a gang of teenagers from tagging her with graffiti. The Doctor herself would have come rushing out with a hose to shout at them to go on if she felt up to more than sleeping on the console, but even those occasions barely made her angry. Besides, it seemed like the TARDIS could manage herself.

Nose rumpled with the effort of reaching, the Doctor succeeded in selecting a teabag and collecting a pack of custard creams from the middle shelf of the cupboard. On the washboard was a graciously clean, rather large mug; a textured, handcrafted piece she’d dug out of the bargain bin at an art festival in Massachusetts. Each of the grooves lined around the mug could fit her thumb, and she loved smoothing over the glaze while she sipped. She didn’t bother with a plate for the biscuits, to hell with a plate. She wasn’t entertaining, and no one else was around to care.

The kettle switched itself off, water inside bubbling and sloshing.

“Gently does it,” she said as she poured. The water started to tan as it bled through the teabag; a concentrated brown puddle settled at the bottom of the mug. _Ah, damn._ There was the necessity for milk and sugar. The sugar bowl sat on kitchen table by the simulated window, sunlight in a yellow square on the wood. The refrigerator, however, was across the room.

Wobbling to the fridge, the Doctor skirted the table, carefully setting her mug down as she passed. _What a thing to be chuffed about, not spilling tea_ , she thought, but then she saw that the biscuits were where she left them on the counter and exhaled noisily before toddling back to fetch them. Once everything was set, a dollop of milk splashed unfurling into the tea, milk jug returned to the fridge, two spoons of sugar dissolving in the mug, biscuits opened and the plastic tray unsheathed to reveal the perfect rows of custard creams, then, then _finally_ , the Doctor sat at the table. She cupped both hands around her mug, inhaling the steam that tickled her cheeks.

The clock on the wall ticked lazily, a counter to her hearts. A fifth, discordant beat: _onetwothreefour—_ five _, onetwothreefour_ five _, onetwothreefour—_ five. Why was that clock suddenly so _infuriating?_ It wasn’t anything fancy, either; an ordinary kitchen clock the Doctor had wired into the TARDIS to tell the local time of wherever they landed. Sheffield local time read approximately four-fifteen. Dismal hour, four in the afternoon. Not quite dinnertime, but rubbing elbows with the evening, it was an hour that didn’t know what to do with itself.

_Much like someone here._

Ah. You’re back.

_As promised. Miss me?_

Not in the slightest.

_Took you long enough to get settled._

I already gave myself a hard time for that; don’t need you adding to it.

_…The clock. It’s irritating you because it’s no longer relevant._

What?

_You are who you are. Timeless. Time has never been less relevant to you than it is now and that clock is just a reminder that you’ve lost all sense of it. Funny thing to happen to a Time Lord. Existential crisis. But then. You’re not a Time Lord, are you? But the Time Lords are you, at least in part. Or they were, anyway._

Go on, rub it in.

_Is it hurting, Doctor?_

Only every day.

_Good._

Did you just come back to gloat?

_Maybe. Tea’s getting cold._

Just as well, flavor’s better at room temperature.

_Now don’t be stubborn, dear._

…Why you? _Why_ is it you? You’re dead, you’re not here, why have I fixated on you?

_You were always sentimental._

And you were always cruel.

_Ouch, I think that actually hurt. Oh, wait._

If I don’t know me, you don’t get to know me, either.

_Touchy, touchy. Something the matter?_

Get out.

_I thought you said I was your guest._

“Get out of my head!” The Doctor found herself on her feet, fists slammed on the table. Breathing hard, she saw the small, cloudy splash of spilled tea bleeding into her half eaten biscuit.

“Doctor?” Her head swiveled around, and Yaz stood frozen in the doorway, still in uniform, eyes wide. The Doctor felt her knees buckle, and landed back in her chair. “Are you alright?”

“Yaz. I’m fine, I’m—” She tried her best to mask the catch in her voice. “I’m fine.” She watched the biscuit absorb most of the spill, cream stained a shade darker. The sound of Yaz’s boots scraping the floor from the doorway, the slightest increase in temperature as her body arrived in the space beside the Doctor. Gentlest pressure on her shoulder, Yaz’s hand landing.

“Have you eaten anything but biscuits today?” Yaz’s voice was soft, like someone visiting a relative in hospital. The Doctor’s ears and neck burned as she turned away, silent. “Let’s get some food in you, yeah? Egg sandwich?” The Doctor felt herself nod, taking stock of her stomach, which she realized felt somehow bloated and empty. “Let me get changed, I’ll be right back.” Yaz’s marginal warmth evaporated as she trotted back down the hall to her room.

_She’s too good to you._

Didn’t I tell you to shove off?

 _Too good_ for _you._

Shut it.

_You know she’s only staying close because—_

She stays because she has hope.

 _And what of_ your _hope, Doctor? Still on holiday? …Thought so._

_Onetwothreefour—_ five. That infernal clock. The Doctor brandished her sonic at it, short-circuiting its power source, silencing it. Better. She drew squiggles on the table with the drop of tea, fascinated by the faux-calligraphy way the liquid tapered off as it evaporated. Yaz returned in leisurewear: jeans and a plain purple t-shirt.

“You’re early,” said the Doctor, splaying her legs under the table.

“Yeah, work was slow. I was just on desk and they let me off an hour before shift end. Nothing I can’t catch up later.” Yaz rummaged in the fridge for butter and eggs.

The Doctor knew she should ask, so she did. “Need any help?”

“Eh, I’m fine.” The metal scrape of the frying pan against other cookware. The gas burner clicking and igniting. “Anything interesting happen today? TARDIS have to chase off any more nutters with spray paint?” Butter hissed as it melted in the pan.

The Doctor squeezed her lips together. It was getting harder to make napping all day sound interesting. “No. Must’ve scared ‘em off for good.”

“That’s good, then. Didn’t you mention a time someone _did_ manage to tag the TARDIS? What did it say?”

“Bad Wolf.”

“Ever figure out what it meant?”

The Doctor flinched, even though the Bad Wolf seemed so insignificant now. “Just a fairy tale.” Bread inserted into the toaster, the metallic give of springs and click as the locking mechanisms engaged. The hum of electricity fed into wires. Eggs tapped and cracked, more hissing, popping as they fried. The Doctor could picture the white skin of the egg forming brown bubbles on the edges, the fragrance of warm butter igniting her long-buried hunger. She swallowed the saliva pooling around her gums as the toast popped up and Yaz scraped butter over it.

A plate slid into view under her nose, a perfect fried egg sandwich; the edges of the toast slightly singed, pale lines an echo of the wire mesh that held it in place in the toaster. Yaz seated herself across from the Doctor.

“Thank you, Yaz.”

“You don’t have to manage on your own, you know,” said Yaz. The crisp of her biting into her own sandwich, muted chewing.

_You’re not. Not really._

Didn’t I tell you to get out already?

_Sorry, couldn’t resist._

You’re not.

_You’re right._

The Doctor picked up her sandwich, thin, warm steam sliding through her fingers. Her teeth cut into the crust, which was a little sharp as it scratched the roof of her mouth. Yaz had cooked the egg just a bit runny, a touch of salt. As the Doctor chewed, she felt her throat close. Strange how egg yolk was sometimes buttery, sometimes a little bitter. She swallowed, and tears started falling, thick and fast. The ounce of food, the small act of living, a victory hard won. Yaz snapped to attention, rushing over to kneel by her side.

“Hey, Doctor, it’s alright. You’re okay, you’re—”

“I’m not,” said the Doctor, setting the sandwich down and rubbing her eyes on her sleeve. “Yaz, I’m not.” And that just made her cry harder into her hands.

“It’s okay if you’re not okay,” Yaz murmured. Her tentative hand rested on the Doctor’s knee. “You don’t have to be.”

“But I do,” the Doctor sniffled. “I’m the Doctor, I’m…”

_You don’t even know what you are anymore. Clinging to a name like a shield. Admit it._

No.

_I’ve broken you._

No.

_That whole ‘it makes me more’ bit was a bluff. Say it._

No.

_Everything you are is tied up in lies and you don’t know where they unravel._

Stop it.

_The whole of time and space and you’re alone, Doctor. Some scrap of near immortality, used and abused for hundreds of lives you don’t remember, then appropriated to the people who used and abused you._

Stop—

_Doesn’t it make you rage? Don’t you want to see Gallifrey burn again?_

No, I—

_Because you know deep down, Doctor, you’re like me. Some shred of you is imprinted with me as I was with you, and you’ll never be rid of it. You can give yourself regeneration speeches about being kind and courageous and then you can fall to Earth and make new friends but you will never be rid of what I’ve done to you. So what’s it gonna be, eh? Surrender to it._

I can’t, I won’t—

_You can. You will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends-
> 
> We're all processing grief right now. It's helping me to write out post-Timeless Children, I think because the Doctor's been through something parallel to us. Her whole sense of self has been turned upside down; our whole way of life has been turned upside down. We're grieving, we're all managing in different ways. Be kind to yourselves, especially now.
> 
> Hoping to update this one later tonight if I finish it, but it's been very hard for me to write it; a lot of the Doctor's depression behaviors here are mine. Hoping for a happy ending. That's where it seems to be going, anyway.
> 
> That being said, I have other, happier fics in this series if you need a palate cleanser. Highly recommend "Of Birthdays and Boom Cakes" if you want pure fluff. On the house.
> 
> Be kind to yourselves, take care.
> 
> Cheers,  
> Jo
> 
> P.S. Catch me on tumblr if you need to chat about things. I'm in regular therapy, my basket is full and I'm more than happy to give some support.  
> P.P.S. This prompt is on tumblr from this post: https://halfbakedpoet.tumblr.com/post/614962527798984704/the-amazing-devil-writing-prompts-1


	2. Chapter 2

_Have you given it another think?_

I was _trying_ to sleep.

_This is no time to be sleeping._

Isn’t it? Seems like good a time as any.

_I’d say it’s pathetic, but it’s not even that._

Underhanded backhand, wow. _Really_ got me there. I’m trembling.

_And you say I haven’t broken you_.

I’m allowed a rest.

_Don’t spend too long fighting._

I’ll keep it in mind.

_Wake up._

Why?

_There’s so much else you could be doing._

Name four.

_Revisit—_

Oh, forgot to mention I don’t care.

_You’re awake now anyway. Funny what a little defiance’ll do, eh?_

Night had fallen in Sheffield, and the TARDIS had adopted a low, blue light to reflect the world outside herself. Not that the Doctor paid much mind to the time of day; settled in place it all blended together, though she noted a vague awareness that the TARDIS was trying to set a cadence to her routine by dimming and brightening the lights at different times of the Earth day. Not that it mattered much: she could sleep through the end of Sheffield, the block’s demolition, the spring growth of new buildings or forests that would take over around the TARDIS. Her weariness seeped in somehow deeper than her marrow, and her hearts seemed to labor to beat.

The TARDIS murmured. _You sure you don’t want your own bedroom?_

“Nah, I’m alright, you know me. Could sleep anywhere. Besides, I normally don’t need more than a few hours. And I like keeping you company.” She sat up, her neck popping, eyelids still heavy and puffy. “Did Yaz go home, then?”

A gentle beep. _She went to bed_.

“Here or the flat?”

A pause, then a soft trill. _She’s in her room._

“I see what you’re doing. Baiting me with curiosity. Clever girl.”

_No harm in checking._

“You’re just trying to get me to go to a proper bed.”

_Don’t make me turn down the heat, love. You’ll sleep better, promise._

Was that all life was, the Doctor wondered, signaling to her ship that she was giving in by rising from her spot on the console. A series of promises that may or may not come to pass? Her own name was a promise: of healing, of aid and compassion and repair— _but who heals the healer?_ And the Timeless Child, a promise wrapped in a myth and tied with a bow, the promise of regeneration, the promise of near-immortality, what did that amount to now that its proprietors were… She gravitated toward the archway leading to the hall, pausing to rest against it. The TARDIS thrummed a note of encouragement, and the Doctor, trailing a hand along the wall, ambled toward Yaz’s room. It was nearest, anyway.

_Again with the speed of a turtle wearing ankle weights._

That’s enough out of you.

_Doesn’t it bother you?_

I know _you_ do.

_Well, that’s my job._

Ought to give you the sack.

_Not as simple as that._

Isn’t it?

She reached Yaz’s door, grasping the frame for support. A gleam caught her eye: the brass nameplate etching in Gallifreyan script she’d engraved and soldered on herself. The Doctor felt her insides squirm and constrict, her eye sucked into the overlapping circles and crisscrossing lines. How long had it been since she strolled past Yaz’s room? Better question, how long had it been since she looked up at the plate when she did? She couldn’t remember a time she didn’t know how to read in circular. She couldn’t remember learning how or anything about it before the childhood memory of leading the Master by the hand through the citadel, reading inscriptions on statues and walls and hanging lanterns aloud for him. And there were the same inscriptions, cracked and smoking as he led her through his ruin, pointing at them. _Remember those, do you?_ She swallowed the threatening bile in her throat and cast her gaze elsewhere, adrift, treading water for anything else. And then, a raft: there was the subtle height marker on the right side of the frame at approximately one hundred and sixty-five centimeters, too fine a line for human eyes to see.

_“Doctor, what’re you—”_

_“Just stand there for me a moment, will you, Yaz?”_

_“I don’t understand why I have to be facing the frame.”  
“Trust me?”_

_“Always.”_

The Doctor looked at the floor, at the way the leather of her right boot scrunched and flexed as she pressed down on the ball of her foot. The tired way the material creaked with the strain. The roots of her own shadow extending up, flush against the brushed metal of the door. In her periphery, she could see the edge of the button she’d installed.

_Will you, or shall I?_

I’d rather you stay out of this.

_You’d rather a lot of things._

That includes you leaving me alone.

_Tough. I’m always with you._

I didn’t ask you to be.

_I never wait for an invitation._

No. You don’t.

_Go on, then._

Her knees gave a little, running out of steam to stay upright. She balled her hand into a too-heavy fist and released, a slow, elastic uncurling process in her fingers. Nothing for it. She pressed the button, the exact sound of knocking on a wooden door muffled on the other side. (At the time she installed it, she’d called it a knuckle saver; she too often split her knuckles against machinery, which made knocking on a metal door most unpleasant. Graham said it was a glorified doorbell.) Her stomach sank when she heard the shuffle of slippers, the turn of the handle, the scuff of metal as the latch bolt edged backward; she’d half hoped the room was empty.

Yaz appeared at the door, still awake, her long hair tumbling down in black waves. Her dark eyes were exceedingly gentle as she tilted her head at the Doctor. “Hey.”

“Yaz. Hi.” The Doctor pulled in her lower lip and bit down, tucking her chin. “Can I come in?” She failed to appear as though she weren’t addressing her left shoulder, but Yaz stepped backward, allowing her entry.

“Come on, then.”

The Doctor hobbled to the bed. Yaz kept her room aboard the TARDIS relatively spare: a favorite blanket from home lay across the end of the bed; a bookshelf the Doctor had supplied her was stuffed with selections from the library; a small family photograph sat on the bedside table by the lamp. In the frame, Yaz and Sonya were squirmy, grinning, miniature versions of themselves, seated on their parents’ laps. Yaz even had her hair done up in her favorite two buns, slouching off Najia’s knees so her toes brushed the floor. The Doctor felt the tension in her forehead ease somewhat.

“I wanted to say thank you… for earlier,” said the Doctor. It wasn’t a lie, though she felt like she was inventing things on the spot. “You’re taking care of me and it… it should be the other way ‘round. I… don’t know what’s come over me, I…” She swallowed, staring hard at the spiraling pattern on the border of the rug. “I haven’t been myself.” The mattress gave beside her as Yaz, too, sat. The Doctor felt her mouth move and more than she wanted came spilling out. “It’s just… one minute I think I’m okay, I can get up, make a cup of tea, maybe even think about popping over to the other side of the Milky Way, just a quick nip over and back, and the next, I’m asking myself what’s the point. I can barely walk and I don’t know why, and if someone’s in trouble, I wouldn’t be able to protect them. Like Gal—I couldn’t—Yaz, I…” It felt like she’d been sucked into the vacuum of space; her lungs stuttered, refusing to inflate. “I’m sorry,” she gasped.

“S’alright, Doctor. Hey, breathe.” Yaz’s hands stayed folded. The Doctor forced a too-shallow breath; her own hands crumpling the rainbow trim of coat in her lap.

“I’m just… so tired, Yaz.”

“No wonder you are,” said Yaz, adopting that soft, non-threatening voice. “It’s just… you’ve been carrying a weight for a while, yeah? You were bound to wear out sometime.”

The Doctor managed another breath and nodded. Best get to it. “The TARDIS wanted me to ask… well, we were both wondering…” Yaz’s eyebrows lifted. “See, she threatened to freeze me out if I didn’t, and you know I just sleep wherever and…” Why was she babbling? Why couldn’t she just ask? What was so hard about asking? “I should go,” she blurted, struggling back to her feet. She’d find Ryan or Graham’s room, both reliably empty since they’d retired from time travel. The air that had refused to trickle into her lungs suddenly came flooding in. She started toward the door, quicker than her legs were willing to go, and she stumbled.

“No, wait.” Yaz’s hand closed on the hem of her sleeve. The Doctor looked back at her, into the shock of brown eyes, which were wide and half wild with concern and something she couldn’t name. Desperation wasn’t quite it, nor was it pleading. Why was it so hard to conjure a name for something as simple as an expression? Yaz’s lips were just parted; her face softened. “Stay.” It was a single musical note, half-tuned to a question. “If… if the TARDIS wants you to, anyway. If you were gonna ask.”

The air pressure in the Doctor’s lungs released, and she found herself dizzy as she gasped to resume a normal breathing rhythm. She let Yaz lead her back toward the bed by her sleeve. Slowly, they climbed in together (Yaz made the Doctor remove her boots first), and in the lamplight, they faced each other under the covers, inches apart. This close, the Doctor could count Yaz’s eyelashes, her eyebrow hairs, and the black flecks in her irises. Yaz watched the track of the Doctor’s eyes in her silent counting, which took approximately three seconds before she settled on four hundred and sixty-eight, six hundred and forty-three, give or take, and seventeen or so.

_It’s like I said earlier, she’s too good to you_.

She’s Yasmin Khan. She’s brilliant. The best.

_And you won’t even tell her what happened on Gallifrey._

She knew about the Cyber—

_Not those._

Does she need to know?

_She’ll never trust you._

She already does.

_Some friendship. Can’t you see her pining?_

I’m not daft.

_Maybe you are. Just a little. Daft and timeless and unlovable. Wherever you came from exiled you through that gate._

Now that _is_ a lie.

_You know, for someone who preaches love and hope so often—_

Don’t.

_—you don’t know how to let yourself be loved._

“Did you want to talk at all?” Yaz asked, blinking. An eyelash detached itself and floated down to her pillow. _Four hundred and sixty-seven_.

“What about?”

“I dunno… what’s been so heavy for you?” The Doctor felt her lips thin, the gnawing in her ribcage, the worry lines ingraining into her forehead. Yaz backtracked. “But only if you want to. Thought it might help me understand, or try, at least.”

The Doctor examined Yaz’s face. Yes, that was a small flush in her cheeks, her breath like a frightened rabbit. Alright, then. “You remember when I told you I’m a Time Lord?”

“From the planet Gallifrey in the constellation Kasterborous,” Yaz finished. So she did pay attention.

_She hangs onto every word you say._

Hush. Not now.

“Turns out…” The Doctor swallowed, her already tight throat impossibly dry. “That’s not true.” A warm, wet trail trickled across the bridge of her nose and out the opposite corner of her left eye, into her hair, a damp spot on the pillow.

“What happened?” Yaz reached across to tuck a strand of hair behind the Doctor’s ear. The Doctor flinched when Yaz’s thumb grazed her cheek, and Yaz, eyes wide as though she’d been reprimanded, pulled her hand back. “Ryan said the Master turned up and took you away, through the boundary… What happened?” she repeated.

The Doctor closed her eyes. She could still see it: the Capitol burning; an odd corpse charred beyond recognition; the ravaged repair shop in Sector Eight where she’d stolen her TARDIS; Sector Five’s great libraries, where she’d spent many an afternoon poring and reading, aflame; all the crushed rubble and twisted metal, and the Master leading her through it, gleefully pointing out places they’d visited together, now utterly destroyed.

_“Do you remember sitting on the window ledges there, our legs dangling from a thousand stories up, and we’d dare each other to jump? Would’ve been a waste of a regeneration, but we had such fun imagining who we’d be next, didn’t we?”_

_“I remember you almost fell.”_

_“And you grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me back inside.”_

_“Imagine if I didn’t.”_

_“Now, now, no threats you can’t fulfill.”_

“You saw it, Yaz. Everything a wreck, everything on fire, the streets empty, every window shattered. Always liked to show off, the Master. Rub your nose in it. Made sure we passed some of our favorite spots.” The Doctor couldn’t bring her voice above a whisper, as though speaking any louder would summon the remains of Gallifrey to Earth.

“We saw,” murmured Yaz. “It was horrible. I always wanted to see your home, where you’re from, but…” She blinked, her lips curling in. “Not like that.”

“It was a trap. He’d been taunting me about the Timeless Child, this origin story for the Time Lords.”

“How did it go? The story?”

“Wasn’t so much of a story as it was a sense of things. We just knew the Timeless Child was our beginning, a myth reinforced by education, a whisper of thought etched into our cellular memory. Might have been born knowing about the Timeless Child.” The Doctor shrugged. “But there was a different story at play the whole time.”

Yaz’s brow furrowed as she puzzled. She made a move to reach for the Doctor again, but hesitated. The Doctor scooted closer a fraction of an inch.

“It was all a trap. He showed me the real story, while he was dealing with the Cybermen.”

Yaz waited a moment. “And?”

“And I’m not who I thought I was,” said the Doctor, her breath shuddering. She watched Yaz make the connection, realization dawning on her face.

“It’s you. The Timeless Child.”

“The genetic basis for every Time Lord’s regenerative abilities.” She bit her lower lip to stop its quaver. “I don’t remember any of this, being tested on and forced to regenerate over and over. I don’t remember any of my lives before a certain point. It was all taken from me. And just like that, everything changed, just like he said it would.”

Yaz frowned. “I don’t often say this, but… you’re wrong.” The Doctor looked up at her, a sliver of surprise weaving into her chest. “You learned something new about yourself, but that doesn’t change who you are now. It doesn’t change how I see you, who you are to me.” Yaz smiled softly. “You’re still the best person I’ve ever met. You’re still the Doctor.”

The Doctor felt more tears race across her nose on their way to the growing damp patch on her pillow. Pressing against the insides of her ribs, the ache in her chest expanded as she took a great gulp of air. Unable to think of anything to soften the pain, she reached for Yaz, who, after hesitating—silently confirming this offer of consent—pulled her in close. The Doctor burrowed into Yaz’s shoulder, soaking a spot on her shirt. And Yaz held her, resting her cheek against the Doctor’s head, absorbing the tremors as she sobbed.

Her breakout from the Matrix flickered behind the Doctor’s eyelids, and a different voice broke through in her mind.

_It’s like I said: Have you ever been limited by who you were before?_

Now that’s a better projection voice.

_You realize you’re not limited, that’s a start. Only took you a month out of prison to remember we had that chat, on top of all those months in._

There’s a lot still to bear.

_You’re really quite thick, aren’t you?_

Oi, I’m not taking that kind of talk anymore.

_You’re stuck, Doctor. You’re stuck in mourning for who you thought you were, but you’re forgetting you have to accept what happened._

The Master version of you called it ‘surrendering’.

_He wasn’t kind about it, but he wasn’t wrong. It doesn’t make you any less the Doctor to acknowledge the hurt. It’s a heavy thing to carry._

I don’t want this.

_Tough luck. We’ve borne a lot for the universe. Bear this for you._

…This doesn’t make it all go away, does it? The pain.

_No. I reckon we’ll hurt for a while yet._

Brilliant.

_You can cut the sarcasm; we’re not alone in this._

Yaz. Never ceases to be amazing. She… shouldn’t take this on for me.

_Can you even fathom how much she must love you?_

I thought I could fathom a lot, ‘til recently.

_Still, good fried egg sandwiches are hard to come by._

What am I to do about her, then?

_What have you always done? Be kind._

The Doctor remembered to notice that Yaz’s body was soft against hers. The smell of her shampoo was sweet, something in the vicinity of lavender, and there was that residual curry scent that hung about the Khan family home clinging to her as well; a rich, round blend of spices that the Doctor adored. She felt her tears slow, and then stop altogether, replaced with a weariness that dragged down her eyelids. She felt Yaz rub her back, nuzzling her hair.

She didn’t notice herself drifting until she woke, still pressed into Yaz in a square of melted sunlight. Yaz hummed a handful of ascending and descending notes quietly to herself, one arm around the Doctor, a book open with her free hand. The Doctor yawned, wedging herself more securely against Yaz’s side, and she felt her freeze in response to the movement. She sighed, determined to catch a few more minutes of rest in this moment, and Yaz resumed humming, relaxing into the touch again. She knew the heaviness would return, the hurt, the weight in her stomach, the strain on her hearts to keep beating, but somehow it didn’t feel as raw. The strength in her legs would return; she would resume her exploring and meddling in the boundless universe. It was a start. She had all the time she could possibly need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, fam!
> 
> So last chapter was a tough one. Truly, I think I spent much longer writing this fic than I think I have on most of the others. It felt more fitting to give this a bittersweet ending; after all, grief is not fixed overnight, but Thirteen is still an optimist.
> 
> Easter egg reveal: who noticed Yaz was humming Thirteen's theme? (Huge soundtrack and score nerd here.)
> 
> I also came to the realization that this particular fic is set between Feel Alive and Half of Always. Most of my one shots in this series are interconnected (major exception for Psychic Ink); I do try to keep a consistent canon going so I can build off it, but each story can be read on its own as well.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, smash any buttons you like, and your comments are lovely gifts. Seriously, keep them coming.  
> Remember to be kind to yourselves and others, and wash your hands.
> 
> Best,  
> Jo


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